IT IS DECIDED TO MASQUERADE
The first day of quail-shooting found Van Bristow's guests afield.
Separated from the others, Benton and Cara came upon a small grove, like
an oasis in the stretching acres of stubble. Under a scarlet maple that
reared itself skyward all aflame, and shielded by a festooning profusion
of wild-grape, a fallen beech-trunk offered an inviting seat. The girl
halted and grounded arms.
The man seated himself at her feet and looked up. He framed a question,
then hesitated, fearing the answer. Finally he spoke, controlling his
voice with an effort.
"Cara," he questioned, "how long have I?"
Her eyes widened as if with terror. "A very--very little time, dear,"
she said. "It frightens me to think how little. Then--then--nothing but
memory. Do you realize what it all means?" She leaned forward and laid a
hand on each of his shoulders. "Just one week more, and after that I
shall look out to sea when the sun sinks, red and sullen, into leaden
waters and think of--of Arcady--and you."
"Don't, Cara!" He seized her hands and went on talking fast and
vehemently. "Listen! I love you--that is not a unique thing. You love
me--that is the miracle. And because of a distorted idea of duty, our
lives must go to wreck. Don't you see the situation is
ludicrous--intolerable? You are trying to live a medieval life in a day
of wireless telegraph and air ships."
She nodded. "But what are we going to do about it?" she questioned
simply.
"Cara, dear--if I could find a way!" he pleaded eagerly. "Suppose I
could play the magician!"
He rose and stood back of the log.
She leaned back so that she might look into his eyes. "I wish you
could," she mused with infinite weariness.
He stooped suddenly and kissed the drooping lips with a resentful sense
of the monstrous injustice of a scheme of things wherein such lips could
droop.
"No, no, no!" she cried. "You must not! I've got to be Queen of
Galavia--I've got to be his wife." Then, in a quick, half-frightened
tone: "Yet when you are with me I can't help it. It's wicked to love
you--and I do."
He smiled through the misery of his own frown. "Am I so bad as that?" he
questioned.
"You are so bad"--she suddenly caught his hands in hers and slowly
shook her head--"that I don't trust myself on the same side of the road
with you. You must go across and sit on that opposite side." She lightly
kissed his forehead. "That's a kiss before exile--now go."
He measured the distance with disapproving eyes. "That must be fifteen
feet away," he protested, "and my arms are not a yard long." He
stretched them out, viewing them ruefully.
"Go!" she repeated with sternness.
He obeyed slowly, his face growing sullen.
"If I am to stay here until I recant what I said about your odious
kingdom and your miserable throne, I'll--I'll--" He cast about for a
sufficiently rebellious sentiment, then resolutely asserted: "I'll stay
here until I rot in my chains." He raised his hands and shook imaginary
manacles. "Clink! Clink! Clink!" he added dramatically.
"You are being punished for being too fascinating to a poor little fool
princess who has played truant and who doesn't want to go back to
school." She talked on with forced levity. "As for the kingdom,"--once
more her eyes became wistful--"you may say what you like about it. You
can't possibly hate it as much as I. There is no anarchist screaming his
adherence to the red flag or inventing infernal machines, who hates all
thrones as much as the one small girl who must needs be Queen of
Galavia. No, _lèse-majesté_ is not the fault for which you are being
punished."
For a while he was silent, then his voice was raised in exile, almost
cheerfully.
"Destiny is stronger than the paretic councils of little inbred kings.
Why, Cara, I can get one good, husky Methodist preacher who can do in
five minutes what I hardly think your royalties can undo--ever."
"Oh, don't!" she stopped him with plaintive appeal. "I know all that. I
know it. Don't you realize that the longer the flight into the open blue
of the skies, the harder the return to a gilt cage? But, dearest--there
is such a thing as keeping one's parole. I must go back, unless I am
held by a force stronger than I. I must go back. I have been here almost
too long."
"Cara," he said slowly, "I, too, have a sense of duty. It is to you. The
open blue of the skies is yours by right--divine right. You have nothing
to do with cages, gilt or otherwise. My duty is to free you. I mean to
do it. I haven't finished thinking it out yet, but I am going to find
the way."
Her answering voice was deeply grave.
"If you just devise a situation where I shall have to fight it all out
again, you will only make it harder for me. I must do what I must do. I
could only be rescued by some power stronger than myself. Come, let's
go back."
At dinner that same evening Mrs. Van announced to her guests that "by
request of one who should be nameless," punctuating her pledge of
secrecy with a pronounced glance at Benton, there would be a masquerade
affair on the evening before Cara's departure for New York. She said
this was to be an informal sort of frolic in fancy dress, and the only
requirement would be that every grown-up should for an evening return to
childhood.
On the next morning ensued a hegira from the place, the object whereof
was guarded with the most diplomatic deception and secrecy.
"Why this unanimous desertion?" demanded Van indignantly from the head
of the table when it began to develop that an exodus impended. "Do your
appetites crave the stimulus of city cooking? Are you leaving my simple
roof for the lobster palaces?"
Benton shook his head. "Singular," he commented, studying his
grape-fruit with the air of an oracle gazing into crystal. "There, for
example, is Colonel Centress who will probably tell you that he has had
an imperative summons to confer with his brokers and--"
He paused, while the ancient beau across the table quickly nodded
affirmation.
"Quite so. How did you guess it?" he inquired.
"Never talk business at table, of course, but this is a mysterious
flurry in stocks--quite a mysterious flurry."
"Quite so," echoed Benton. "Nevertheless, if you were to shadow the
gallant Colonel in Manhattan to-day he would probably lead you to a
costuming tailor, where you would discover him in the act of being
fitted with a Roman toga or a crusader's mail."
Mrs. Porter-Woodleigh shot a malicious glance at the tall foreigner
whose emotionless face proved a constant irritation to her exuberant
vivacity. "I understand, Colonel Von Ritz," she innocently suggested,
"that you are to impersonate a polar bear."
The Galavian smiled deep in his eyes only; his lips remained sober. One
would have said that he had not recognized the thrust. "I shall only
remain myself," he replied. "I am allowed to be a looker-on in Venice."
Under her breath the widow confided to her next neighbor: "Ah! then it
is true."
"What are _you_ going to town for?" demanded Mrs. Van, looking
accusingly at Benton, as that gentleman arose from the table.
"I should say," he laughingly responded, "that I am going to complete
final arrangements for getting the Isis into commission, but nobody
would believe me. You are all becoming so diplomatic of late!"
Von Ritz glanced up casually. "There is one very dangerous
diplomacy--one very difficult to become accustomed to," he commented.
"I allude to the American diplomacy of frankness."
"The _Isis_? To think I have never seen your yacht!" mused Cara. "And
yet you are allowing me to cross on a steamer."
"If she could be put in shape so soon," declared Benton regretfully,
glancing from Von Ritz to Pagratide, "I should shanghai Mrs. Van for a
chaperon and give a party to Europe. Unfortunately I can't get her in
readiness promptly enough; unless," he added hopefully, "Miss Carstow
can postpone her sailing-day?"